A new Stranger column about a delicate matter: sex workers and race.
Like many of my Stranger columns, it's a subject that deserves far more discussion than I have space to give it. But I think it's worth introducing the ideas, and I hope they stir more discussion in others...
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The Weather Outside Is Frightful
The Mistress is cranky about the heat. I know, I know, I don't like snow, either. So persnickety am I.
I admit that the heat is easier in some ways - I can drive in it, for example. And it hasn't yet made my power go out.
But while I can feel sexy when it's snowing outside, I cannot feel sexy with a constant trickle of perspiration running down my back. It's like wearing a latex catsuit, all the time. And while dewy women can be alluring, the charm of that wears off quickly. Like after about half an hour or so.
Still, at least no one provokes me into a towering rage by cooing at me about how pretty the heat is. I should find all those snow-loving, "Oh look, it's just like a postcard!" people and torment them by talking about how wooooooonderful record-breaking, 100-degree heat is. Walking in a summer wonderland!
The Mistress is cranky about the heat. I know, I know, I don't like snow, either. So persnickety am I.
I admit that the heat is easier in some ways - I can drive in it, for example. And it hasn't yet made my power go out.
But while I can feel sexy when it's snowing outside, I cannot feel sexy with a constant trickle of perspiration running down my back. It's like wearing a latex catsuit, all the time. And while dewy women can be alluring, the charm of that wears off quickly. Like after about half an hour or so.
Still, at least no one provokes me into a towering rage by cooing at me about how pretty the heat is. I should find all those snow-loving, "Oh look, it's just like a postcard!" people and torment them by talking about how wooooooonderful record-breaking, 100-degree heat is. Walking in a summer wonderland!
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Complete and unedited email I got recently...
I get the most weirdly random email. I’m usually good at connecting apparent non sequiturs to a subject that makes sense, but this one took me a full minute or so.
What happens is: someone Googles some odd term or other, finds a page of my blog, reads it, but doesn’t note the date. And then they write to me commenting about a post from, say, five years ago. As if it would still be uppermost in my mind.
First things first: this letter is made of fail. The idea of race as a fetish is offensive to me. I am also repulsed by the idea of fetishizing people because they have lost a limb. For the record, I have had partners of all races, and I have been sexual with handicapped people. But people are not fetish objects.
I suppose you could say that someone fetishized cocks of a certain size, because cocks are sort of objects. Sort of. They happen to be attached to people, so I’m not crazy about that characterization. I’ll allow it, given that the owners and operators of cocks often speak of them as separate entities with autonomous government, and we're playing fast and loose with the literal definition of the word "fetish" anyway. But clearly the writer does not understand that women don’t usually fetishize body parts the way men sometimes do.
Other point of failure: this writer is also confusing two different people. Milo was a man I mentioned playing with, but Mike was a secondary partner of mine a little more than five years ago, before I started seeing Monk.
And Mike was not into BDSM, which I mentioned in a post I wrote about him, and I said there was a certain thing about him that I found particularly sexy, but I declined to say what it was. I was purposely rather oblique, but I’m willing say more now.
There were plenty of obvious reasons to like Mike: he was handsome, charming, intelligent, and he also proved to be good in bed.
He was also completely not-jealous and drama-free. That was a huge issue to me at the time - even bigger than it is now, which is still pretty big – because my previous relationship had ended in a firestorm of jealousy and drama.
Because of that, I spent several years skittering nervously away from anyone who even hinted they might get jealous of me. Someone I barely knew sent me a letter that was (I believe) intended to be sexy, and in it they mentioned being possessive. I think they were trying to impress me with their intensity, or something. But talk about the wrong thing to say! I all but took out a restraining order on them.
But Mike was perfectly fine with me showing up at random intervals, having a passionate evening, and then vanishing. No next-date setting, not much communication in between, and absolutely, positively no talk about where is our relationship going? It was great.
So you might say what I fetishized about Mike was his non-possessiveness. However, he did do this one thing that turned me on. He welded. I’m serious: he’s a metal artist, and he welded and worked in metal, and watching him do that was very sexy to me.
I do have a mild machine-sex fetish. Mild meaning: I rarely do anything about it, but it's fun to think about and I often think pictures of it are sexy.
But what I really have is a competence fetish. If I watch someone do something, and they are clearly very good at it, that can be a big turn-on. For example, watching Max do awesome rope bondage on people was what made me first say “Hey, that guy’s kinda cool.” I once got sprung on someone because she was a pool shark. Watching her just clean people’s clocks on the green felt table got me tingly. Looking at Mike’s art, and his tools, and seeing him do the whole make-the-sparks-fly welding thing? Yeah, that made the sparks fly for me, definitely. We had sex in his shop any number of times.
It was a charming arrangement and it was the perfect re-entry relationship. It ran its course, as relationships usually do. But it ended amicably, and Mike renewed my faith in the idea that it was possible to have a fun and affectionate casual-dating relationship without it leading to the type of insane drama that requires lawyers.
So would I get turned on by just any pool hustler or metal worker? No. But doing something manifestly well is sexy. Unfortunately for this person, he is demonstrating that letter-writing is not a skill he can parlay into hot dates.
SUBJECT: my 3 guesses at what your fetish is that you indulge with Milo
1. He is an amputee
2. He has a very large/small cock (is that 2 guesses?)
3. He is Chinese
I get the most weirdly random email. I’m usually good at connecting apparent non sequiturs to a subject that makes sense, but this one took me a full minute or so.
What happens is: someone Googles some odd term or other, finds a page of my blog, reads it, but doesn’t note the date. And then they write to me commenting about a post from, say, five years ago. As if it would still be uppermost in my mind.
First things first: this letter is made of fail. The idea of race as a fetish is offensive to me. I am also repulsed by the idea of fetishizing people because they have lost a limb. For the record, I have had partners of all races, and I have been sexual with handicapped people. But people are not fetish objects.
I suppose you could say that someone fetishized cocks of a certain size, because cocks are sort of objects. Sort of. They happen to be attached to people, so I’m not crazy about that characterization. I’ll allow it, given that the owners and operators of cocks often speak of them as separate entities with autonomous government, and we're playing fast and loose with the literal definition of the word "fetish" anyway. But clearly the writer does not understand that women don’t usually fetishize body parts the way men sometimes do.
Other point of failure: this writer is also confusing two different people. Milo was a man I mentioned playing with, but Mike was a secondary partner of mine a little more than five years ago, before I started seeing Monk.
And Mike was not into BDSM, which I mentioned in a post I wrote about him, and I said there was a certain thing about him that I found particularly sexy, but I declined to say what it was. I was purposely rather oblique, but I’m willing say more now.
There were plenty of obvious reasons to like Mike: he was handsome, charming, intelligent, and he also proved to be good in bed.
He was also completely not-jealous and drama-free. That was a huge issue to me at the time - even bigger than it is now, which is still pretty big – because my previous relationship had ended in a firestorm of jealousy and drama.
Because of that, I spent several years skittering nervously away from anyone who even hinted they might get jealous of me. Someone I barely knew sent me a letter that was (I believe) intended to be sexy, and in it they mentioned being possessive. I think they were trying to impress me with their intensity, or something. But talk about the wrong thing to say! I all but took out a restraining order on them.
But Mike was perfectly fine with me showing up at random intervals, having a passionate evening, and then vanishing. No next-date setting, not much communication in between, and absolutely, positively no talk about where is our relationship going? It was great.
So you might say what I fetishized about Mike was his non-possessiveness. However, he did do this one thing that turned me on. He welded. I’m serious: he’s a metal artist, and he welded and worked in metal, and watching him do that was very sexy to me.
I do have a mild machine-sex fetish. Mild meaning: I rarely do anything about it, but it's fun to think about and I often think pictures of it are sexy.
But what I really have is a competence fetish. If I watch someone do something, and they are clearly very good at it, that can be a big turn-on. For example, watching Max do awesome rope bondage on people was what made me first say “Hey, that guy’s kinda cool.” I once got sprung on someone because she was a pool shark. Watching her just clean people’s clocks on the green felt table got me tingly. Looking at Mike’s art, and his tools, and seeing him do the whole make-the-sparks-fly welding thing? Yeah, that made the sparks fly for me, definitely. We had sex in his shop any number of times.
It was a charming arrangement and it was the perfect re-entry relationship. It ran its course, as relationships usually do. But it ended amicably, and Mike renewed my faith in the idea that it was possible to have a fun and affectionate casual-dating relationship without it leading to the type of insane drama that requires lawyers.
So would I get turned on by just any pool hustler or metal worker? No. But doing something manifestly well is sexy. Unfortunately for this person, he is demonstrating that letter-writing is not a skill he can parlay into hot dates.
Friday, July 24, 2009
I am gearing up for a busy seven days, and they’re going to be rather split-second in terms of timing. And somewhat schizophrenic in nature.
Today is easy. I'm about to spend some private time with a friend, and then I’m doing dinner and silliness and kinkiness with a group of my pals. But soon, who should arrive but - my dearest mamma. Which is all well and good, except that I’ll have to do a quick reversal of role.
You seem, my mother is a sweet, gentle woman who loves me very much. She would never raise her voice or argue with anyone. She wants nothing except that the people she loves be happy.
Occasionally, though, my mother gets ideas about what, exactly, would make someone happy. And once she’s decided that - oh, you better just get out of the way. Because she is a five-foot, one-hundred-pound force of nature with a southern accent, and she is simply not going to stop until she has brought about whatever set of circumstances she just knows will be best for her loved one.
I have developed a sort of emotional Aikido for dealing with my mother when she’s on one of her campaigns. You know - don't hurt her, just redirect her momentum. But I pick my battles. Whatever it is, unless you're highly skilled and really invested in not doing it, you should just choose to go along and be made happy by it. Believe me, it’s much simpler if you don’t struggle.
Fortunately, I think she exhausted a lot of her making-people-happy-whether-they-like-it-or-not mojo on my brother’s wedding in May, and besides, now she has a whole new set of people (my sister-in-law’s family) to interest herself in.
Just to make these few days even more fraught with the possibility of comic mishaps, my partner and I also have Midori staying with us. We love her, and she is the best and easiest house guest imaginable. She travels so much so has it down to a science, and she has a knack of flowing into a busy house so smoothly that you hardly now she’s there.
She often stays with us when she’s in town. In fact, my mother and her husband have met Midori at our house before. So when I told my mother Midori would also be here, she replied, “Oh, yes, your friend from San Francisco! She’s so nice, and so pretty. Tell me again, what does she do for a living?”
“Um…she’s an artist. Yeah. An artist. So, is there anything particular you’d like to do while you in Seattle, Mom?”
It used to be that this sort of worlds-colliding would have been flatly impossible for me to manage. But I’ve gotten more relaxed lately about people from my various worlds encountering each other. Still, some things challenge even my ability to keep a lot of balls in the air. Keep your fingers crossed I don’t send them all flying in the wrong directions.
Today is easy. I'm about to spend some private time with a friend, and then I’m doing dinner and silliness and kinkiness with a group of my pals. But soon, who should arrive but - my dearest mamma. Which is all well and good, except that I’ll have to do a quick reversal of role.
You seem, my mother is a sweet, gentle woman who loves me very much. She would never raise her voice or argue with anyone. She wants nothing except that the people she loves be happy.
Occasionally, though, my mother gets ideas about what, exactly, would make someone happy. And once she’s decided that - oh, you better just get out of the way. Because she is a five-foot, one-hundred-pound force of nature with a southern accent, and she is simply not going to stop until she has brought about whatever set of circumstances she just knows will be best for her loved one.
I have developed a sort of emotional Aikido for dealing with my mother when she’s on one of her campaigns. You know - don't hurt her, just redirect her momentum. But I pick my battles. Whatever it is, unless you're highly skilled and really invested in not doing it, you should just choose to go along and be made happy by it. Believe me, it’s much simpler if you don’t struggle.
Fortunately, I think she exhausted a lot of her making-people-happy-whether-they-like-it-or-not mojo on my brother’s wedding in May, and besides, now she has a whole new set of people (my sister-in-law’s family) to interest herself in.
Just to make these few days even more fraught with the possibility of comic mishaps, my partner and I also have Midori staying with us. We love her, and she is the best and easiest house guest imaginable. She travels so much so has it down to a science, and she has a knack of flowing into a busy house so smoothly that you hardly now she’s there.
She often stays with us when she’s in town. In fact, my mother and her husband have met Midori at our house before. So when I told my mother Midori would also be here, she replied, “Oh, yes, your friend from San Francisco! She’s so nice, and so pretty. Tell me again, what does she do for a living?”
“Um…she’s an artist. Yeah. An artist. So, is there anything particular you’d like to do while you in Seattle, Mom?”
It used to be that this sort of worlds-colliding would have been flatly impossible for me to manage. But I’ve gotten more relaxed lately about people from my various worlds encountering each other. Still, some things challenge even my ability to keep a lot of balls in the air. Keep your fingers crossed I don’t send them all flying in the wrong directions.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Letters: Emotional Baggage
This is a nice note, and I have sympathy for the writer. And it’s flattering that this person thinks I can help him.
But I can’t. He says it himself: But…as I get close to it...negative feelings...I'm unable to continue. You see, I feel strongly that if you just listen to what people say, they will tell what you need to know. Most people don’t listen to what’s actually being said, they listen for what they want to hear. Or they listen for what they think they already know.
Both those habits will bite you in the ass time after time. And when they do, you are apt to say to yourself, “Dang, I should have known X would happen.” Well, yeah, you should have. Because someone in a position to know told you it would, but you didn’t listen.
For example, this man is telling me he’s not emotionally ready to do BDSM. I can see why. He’s got serious unresolved issues from the abuse he suffered. I predict that if anyone tried to do a BDSM scene with him, it would go badly. Why? Because BDSM is not therapy.
Let me give that a line all by itself: BDSM is not therapy.
One more time: BDSM is not therapy.
Are we quite clear about that, everyone? BDSM is great. It’s fun, it’s sexy, it’s intense, it’s life-affirming, it’s growth-enhancing, it’s stress-releasing, it is a lot of terrific things. But it is not therapy. You will not heal deep emotional damage just by doing BDSM.
It’s a terribly attractive idea, I know. I have personally seen a lot of folks try to use the bondage rack as a therapist’s couch. (I have seen extremely unethical people use it as a lure to psychologically-fragile partners, too, which I find despicable.) But I have never seen any indication that doing BDSM fixed anyone’s long-term emotional problems. Occasionally the feel-good endorphins and novelty of the roles can buoy up a troubled person, but only in the short term. My observation is that the crash from that high often leaves them worse off then they were before.
So, can a basically healthy person use BDSM to vent stress from one tough day at the office? Sure. Can you work through deep emotional issues like child abuse? I really don’t think so.
Thus, while I don’t share these issues and thus can’t speak to them from the inside, I am profoundly skeptical about “gaining control” of any past issues in this way. I will say that I would firmly decline to play with anyone who presented himself to me with such a motivation. I’m a dominatrix, not a therapist.
Being healthy and happy as a kinky person takes some work even for people who weren’t abused. The writer has got some work to do before he can do this from an emotionally healthy place. My advice to him and anyone is a similar position is: find a good therapist, if you haven’t already, and get clarity on this before you try to incorporate anything as highly complex as BDSM into an intimate relationship. And good luck to you.
I'm looking for guidance on trying to discover just the kind of submissive I am or if perhaps my feelings are merely an expression of some self-loathing. I've read much and still am not certain about my own feelings or fantasies.
I was abused as an adolescent and humiliation, feminization and fondling were part of it. Some others I know that have had similar experiences have found sexualization of those experiences helps them gain control over those events.
I've never quite been able to master the experiences that way and have just compartmentalized them. Sometimes I'm successful. But, I find I continue to be drawn to being dominated, as I get close to it, the negative feelings of my past experience take over and I'm unable to continue.
I wanted to come to you for guidance because you seem to be very well regarded and in your years of experience, I thought surely you've encountered others like myself.
This is a nice note, and I have sympathy for the writer. And it’s flattering that this person thinks I can help him.
But I can’t. He says it himself: But…as I get close to it...negative feelings...I'm unable to continue. You see, I feel strongly that if you just listen to what people say, they will tell what you need to know. Most people don’t listen to what’s actually being said, they listen for what they want to hear. Or they listen for what they think they already know.
Both those habits will bite you in the ass time after time. And when they do, you are apt to say to yourself, “Dang, I should have known X would happen.” Well, yeah, you should have. Because someone in a position to know told you it would, but you didn’t listen.
For example, this man is telling me he’s not emotionally ready to do BDSM. I can see why. He’s got serious unresolved issues from the abuse he suffered. I predict that if anyone tried to do a BDSM scene with him, it would go badly. Why? Because BDSM is not therapy.
Let me give that a line all by itself: BDSM is not therapy.
One more time: BDSM is not therapy.
Are we quite clear about that, everyone? BDSM is great. It’s fun, it’s sexy, it’s intense, it’s life-affirming, it’s growth-enhancing, it’s stress-releasing, it is a lot of terrific things. But it is not therapy. You will not heal deep emotional damage just by doing BDSM.
It’s a terribly attractive idea, I know. I have personally seen a lot of folks try to use the bondage rack as a therapist’s couch. (I have seen extremely unethical people use it as a lure to psychologically-fragile partners, too, which I find despicable.) But I have never seen any indication that doing BDSM fixed anyone’s long-term emotional problems. Occasionally the feel-good endorphins and novelty of the roles can buoy up a troubled person, but only in the short term. My observation is that the crash from that high often leaves them worse off then they were before.
So, can a basically healthy person use BDSM to vent stress from one tough day at the office? Sure. Can you work through deep emotional issues like child abuse? I really don’t think so.
Thus, while I don’t share these issues and thus can’t speak to them from the inside, I am profoundly skeptical about “gaining control” of any past issues in this way. I will say that I would firmly decline to play with anyone who presented himself to me with such a motivation. I’m a dominatrix, not a therapist.
Being healthy and happy as a kinky person takes some work even for people who weren’t abused. The writer has got some work to do before he can do this from an emotionally healthy place. My advice to him and anyone is a similar position is: find a good therapist, if you haven’t already, and get clarity on this before you try to incorporate anything as highly complex as BDSM into an intimate relationship. And good luck to you.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
I'm going to vent here for a moment about some internet silliness that occasionally happens to me.
Here's how it works: someone posts to a narrowly-targeted online community - one devoted to, say, BDSM or polyamory. They say something like, "I want to know how to communicate and be understood by people like you. I'm not one of you, but I wish to learn more about you."
I reply and explain some basic customs for dealing with us. For example: notice that we call ourselves polyamorous, not polygamous. Or: Don’t refer to anyone who likes a spanking now and then as a slave, that’s not accurate.
And then they reply, “Oh, you’re being way too nitpicky. You should just assume that I mean what you mean, it’s not important that I get all these details. You’re just trying to force me to be politically correct.”
Right. That’s me, all about the political correctness.
Rhetorical question: Why in the world would someone ask for my well-informed opinion about something and when I give it to them, get huffy and tell me since it doesn’t validate their assumptions, it can’t be correct?
That’s rhetorical because I know why. I know exactly why. It just makes me feel better to say it.
Here's how it works: someone posts to a narrowly-targeted online community - one devoted to, say, BDSM or polyamory. They say something like, "I want to know how to communicate and be understood by people like you. I'm not one of you, but I wish to learn more about you."
I reply and explain some basic customs for dealing with us. For example: notice that we call ourselves polyamorous, not polygamous. Or: Don’t refer to anyone who likes a spanking now and then as a slave, that’s not accurate.
And then they reply, “Oh, you’re being way too nitpicky. You should just assume that I mean what you mean, it’s not important that I get all these details. You’re just trying to force me to be politically correct.”
Right. That’s me, all about the political correctness.
Rhetorical question: Why in the world would someone ask for my well-informed opinion about something and when I give it to them, get huffy and tell me since it doesn’t validate their assumptions, it can’t be correct?
That’s rhetorical because I know why. I know exactly why. It just makes me feel better to say it.
Monday, July 20, 2009
I just watched this video from CNBC about “high-end prostitution”. And it made me roll my eyes a lot.
Okay, on one hand, it’s really not bad at all. They have some great people in it, like Veronica Monet and Carol Leigh. They're fabulous. And the escorts they interviewed were all bright, articulate women who represented themselves and what they do very well. So from a strictly PR point of view, it’s fine.
What exasperates me is the fact that it’s a 40-minute slog over the same old clichéd ground. I didn’t see or hear one new thing in this video. In fact, I'll save you forty minutes and sum up the whole thing for you in a few lines…
“Women sometimes exchange sex for money. (Here’s some sexy pictures of women.) Sometimes a little money, sometimes a lot. (Here’s some more sexy pictures of women.) Some women like this and do it freely. Other women don’t. (Here’s some MORE sexy pictures of women.) Some people think this is bad, while others think it’s no big deal. Doesn’t seem likely to stop anytime soon. And, that’s our report. (Oh, here’s a few last sexy pictures of women.)”
That’s it. There was some focus on how the internet has changed sex work, which it very definitely has. For well over ten years now.
So - can any of this really be news to anyone past puberty? I mean, come on, people. This is not news. Perhaps you might classify it as a documentary. Perhaps. A rather dull documentary.
It’s like the editor had a staff meeting and said, “Okay, it’s time for something titillating but journalistically defensible. Give me a Number 317.”
“Okay, boss. That’s Expensive Call-Girl Story, right? Just the usual?”
“Yeah. Spin it out for forty minutes. Lots of pictures off the internet, and stock video footage of women putting on stockings and looking out windows. Put some footage of streetwalkers in there too, we gotta have some of those. And make sure you use that one voice-over actress, the one with the suggestive lilt. She could make a fast-food order sound like phone sex.”
“Sure thing. Have it on your desk by Thursday.”
This is a cookie-cutter story. It’s boring. It’s old. I mean, it’s really, really old. I think you can find the very first version of this story painted on a cave wall somewhere in picture form.
I get it that they have to fill up the hours. I get it that a lot of what’s called “news” is just entertainment. But good lord, with the resources at their disposal, you’d think CNBC might produce just one vaguely new and interesting thought in forty minutes.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Once again, I'm doing an informal survey from among the ladies of Seattle for a Stranger column.
The subject is a delicate one - it's about providers and race.
If you're willing to answer a couple of questions, and you can get back to me within 24 hours, I'd love to hear from you.
As always, all names will be changed. No identifying information of any kind will be seen by anyone but me, ever. (And I will never disclose it!)
Email me at MistressMatisse@gmail.com
The subject is a delicate one - it's about providers and race.
If you're willing to answer a couple of questions, and you can get back to me within 24 hours, I'd love to hear from you.
As always, all names will be changed. No identifying information of any kind will be seen by anyone but me, ever. (And I will never disclose it!)
Email me at MistressMatisse@gmail.com
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
This one made me laugh because... I, um, know some people who doe that thing about storeing food and water and stuff for an earthquake or swine flu or some other emergency. I tease them a little about it. And they reminds me that I'll be singing a different tune if there ever is an emergency when we need it.
My other thought was: I'm sorry, if one of my partner's partners was hanging around my house, drinking heavily at 9am, there would be some serious conversation between he and I about that. It would go something like this: "Take this girl out of the house, and never bring her back." There are a few simple but crucial rules for dealing with me, and one of them is: Do not bring your drama to my doorstep. Because I hate drama. You like drama? You have all the drama you want - somewhere else.
And a woman swilling jumbo cans of malt liquor in the morning and calling it "paradise" is drama waiting to happen. That's not a red flag, it's a red circus tent. No, it's a bright red hot-air balloon, and it's going to fall to earth very unpleasantly somewhere. But not on my house, no no. Because bottled water does not help you when that sort of disaster strikes.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Zombies. They’re sort of like bacon, aren’t they? (No, I don’t mean that you eat them. Everyone knows zombies eat us. We are the bacon, for zombies.)
I suppose you could say that bacon and zombies are alike in that they will both kill you if you don’t run far enough fast or fast enough.
But that’s not what I mean, either. No, I mean, zombies – like bacon - have been extra-fashionable lately.
Granted, I thought the whole bacon craze was a little much. I mean, I like meat-candy as well as anyone. But bacon martinis? No. And bacon on doughnuts? That is just wrong, wrong, wrong. We have to have some limits, people, or where will it end?
However, like bacon, zombies never truly go out of style. And what’s even more terrifying (to me) than zombies? Karaoke!
Thus, I am particularly disturbed, fascinated and highly amused by this blog, which features a bunch of zombie-themed parody song lyrics, with more added regularly. Apparently while zombies have a limited conversational repertoire (“Brains! Braaaaaaaains!), they like to sing. So, for your shambling, rotting karaoke pleasure, I give you: Zombaritaville.
I suppose you could say that bacon and zombies are alike in that they will both kill you if you don’t run far enough fast or fast enough.
But that’s not what I mean, either. No, I mean, zombies – like bacon - have been extra-fashionable lately.
Granted, I thought the whole bacon craze was a little much. I mean, I like meat-candy as well as anyone. But bacon martinis? No. And bacon on doughnuts? That is just wrong, wrong, wrong. We have to have some limits, people, or where will it end?
However, like bacon, zombies never truly go out of style. And what’s even more terrifying (to me) than zombies? Karaoke!
Thus, I am particularly disturbed, fascinated and highly amused by this blog, which features a bunch of zombie-themed parody song lyrics, with more added regularly. Apparently while zombies have a limited conversational repertoire (“Brains! Braaaaaaaains!), they like to sing. So, for your shambling, rotting karaoke pleasure, I give you: Zombaritaville.
Friday, July 10, 2009
I don’t blog about specific kinky products very much, just because every time I do, I get a flood of email from people wanting me to "review" and promote their kinky product, whatever it is.
There’s nothing wrong with marketing. But if I did a plug for everyone who asked me, there would be nothing but ad copy here, and that’s not what I want.
However, I am going to mention these, because I’ve been playing with one lately: Bodyhose. Now I know, this looks like an inexpensive version of the Wolford Fatal dress. I have that dress is three colors and I love it, but this is not a fashion post, it’s a bondage post. Because these tubes work very nicely for an encasement-bondage scene.
There’s something fun about covering up all of someone’s skin. I’ve tried saran-wrap bondage, duct tape, vet-wrap, spandex body bags, all the usual things. But these tubes are cool for several reasons.
They are easy to carry, and they are easy to put on someone – certainly way faster and easier than wrapping a person all in duct tape, let me tell you. (Not that it wasn't fun.)
And it’s easy to adjust the level of constraint. For someone new to bondage, or nervous about it, that’s a bonus. Basically, the more you stretch the tube out, the less pressure you put on the skin. Scrunching it up, or folding it in half, makes more pressure on the body. On the other hand, stretching the tube out covers more of the person – but thinly. You can see them, they can see out even if it’s over their face, they can breathe, all those things. But assuming you’ve restricted them in some way underneath it, they can’t get out. Big fun.
I will note that I have only put these on men. (I have seen a girl about my own size wearing one of these as a dress, and she looked as cute as could be.) But they are all one size. So a five-foot-five, 120-pound person is going to be less restricted in one of them than a six-foot-two, 200-pound person. Not that it couldn’t work, it’s just going to be a different experience.
If you have the tube stretched over them from head to foot, clearly your own access to them will be somewhat limited - although impact, clamps, and lots of other mean things work just fine through nylon. But if you want direct access to certain bits, then I advise getting two – one above, and one below, and the interesting parts exposed in the middle.
Have fun!
There’s nothing wrong with marketing. But if I did a plug for everyone who asked me, there would be nothing but ad copy here, and that’s not what I want.
However, I am going to mention these, because I’ve been playing with one lately: Bodyhose. Now I know, this looks like an inexpensive version of the Wolford Fatal dress. I have that dress is three colors and I love it, but this is not a fashion post, it’s a bondage post. Because these tubes work very nicely for an encasement-bondage scene.
There’s something fun about covering up all of someone’s skin. I’ve tried saran-wrap bondage, duct tape, vet-wrap, spandex body bags, all the usual things. But these tubes are cool for several reasons.
They are easy to carry, and they are easy to put on someone – certainly way faster and easier than wrapping a person all in duct tape, let me tell you. (Not that it wasn't fun.)
And it’s easy to adjust the level of constraint. For someone new to bondage, or nervous about it, that’s a bonus. Basically, the more you stretch the tube out, the less pressure you put on the skin. Scrunching it up, or folding it in half, makes more pressure on the body. On the other hand, stretching the tube out covers more of the person – but thinly. You can see them, they can see out even if it’s over their face, they can breathe, all those things. But assuming you’ve restricted them in some way underneath it, they can’t get out. Big fun.
I will note that I have only put these on men. (I have seen a girl about my own size wearing one of these as a dress, and she looked as cute as could be.) But they are all one size. So a five-foot-five, 120-pound person is going to be less restricted in one of them than a six-foot-two, 200-pound person. Not that it couldn’t work, it’s just going to be a different experience.
If you have the tube stretched over them from head to foot, clearly your own access to them will be somewhat limited - although impact, clamps, and lots of other mean things work just fine through nylon. But if you want direct access to certain bits, then I advise getting two – one above, and one below, and the interesting parts exposed in the middle.
Have fun!
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
I uploaded a new podcast. In this one, Monk and I read and answer letters about polyamory. First, we talk about the not-so-good idea of comparing your partners. "Why can't my Partner B be more like my Partner A?" (Hint: Because they are actually two different people.)
Then Monk talks a little about his wife Tambo - and explains why he doesn't talk about her very often. (Hint: Because she is actually Keyser Soze.)
This is the last one we have in the chute, so we'll probably go record some more next week. Got complex questions about BDSM, polyamory, sex work, or brightly colored cocktails? Send them in...
(I have mentioned that I'm becoming a brightly-colored-cocktail expert, didn't I?)
Then Monk talks a little about his wife Tambo - and explains why he doesn't talk about her very often. (Hint: Because she is actually Keyser Soze.)
This is the last one we have in the chute, so we'll probably go record some more next week. Got complex questions about BDSM, polyamory, sex work, or brightly colored cocktails? Send them in...
(I have mentioned that I'm becoming a brightly-colored-cocktail expert, didn't I?)
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
I meant to answer some letters today, but I was endlessly tweaking my column right up to deadline. So instead, just some pop culture notes about that eternally fascinating subject - men.
I’m reading this book: The Score: How The Quest For Sex Has Shaped The Modern Man, by Faye Flam.
Flam is the science reporter for the Philadelphia Inquirer and writes a weekly column for that paper called "Carnal Knowledge", about the science of sex. It’s an interesting subject: why are men the way they are? Who among us has not wondered?
Flam has a light, pleasant tone of voice. There’s a bit too much on the discovery of mitochondria and the evolution of sperm, but overall she keeps it moving.
But I will say: she ain’t Mary Roach. For me, when it comes to pop-science, it doesn’t get any better than Mary Roach’s books.
Also, I watched the première of Hung, HBO’s new series about a male-for-female escort. (Spoilers follow, if you care.)
It wasn’t bad. Frankly, it was much better than I thought it would be. The lead actor, Thomas Jane, plays the character of Ray Drecker with a deft touch. Ray is likeable but imperfect, and he’s definitely having a tough streak of luck. In fact, I sympathized with him so quickly, I kept thinking, “All right, all right, we get it. You’re not a slimeball. Go fuck a woman for money, we’ll still like you, really.”
HBO apparently thinks the average viewer might need more persuading. The virgin run of Hung stayed virgin. Drecker’s unseen first client changed her mind and slipped a turn-away fee to him from under her hotel room door. Hate it when that happens, but at least he got something!
This show has been called "Breaking Bad with prostitution", but it's not nearly as dark as that. I haven't seen all of that show, but the minute you saw Walter White, you knew he was a doomed man. Ray Drecker isn't.
And of course now I’m going to have to watch more of it just to see what happens. Arg. TV is such an insidious thing.
EDIT: Several people have forwarded me this story on the Daily Beast, about Hung and male sex workers. It's interesting.
I’m reading this book: The Score: How The Quest For Sex Has Shaped The Modern Man, by Faye Flam.
Flam is the science reporter for the Philadelphia Inquirer and writes a weekly column for that paper called "Carnal Knowledge", about the science of sex. It’s an interesting subject: why are men the way they are? Who among us has not wondered?
Flam has a light, pleasant tone of voice. There’s a bit too much on the discovery of mitochondria and the evolution of sperm, but overall she keeps it moving.
But I will say: she ain’t Mary Roach. For me, when it comes to pop-science, it doesn’t get any better than Mary Roach’s books.
Also, I watched the première of Hung, HBO’s new series about a male-for-female escort. (Spoilers follow, if you care.)
It wasn’t bad. Frankly, it was much better than I thought it would be. The lead actor, Thomas Jane, plays the character of Ray Drecker with a deft touch. Ray is likeable but imperfect, and he’s definitely having a tough streak of luck. In fact, I sympathized with him so quickly, I kept thinking, “All right, all right, we get it. You’re not a slimeball. Go fuck a woman for money, we’ll still like you, really.”
HBO apparently thinks the average viewer might need more persuading. The virgin run of Hung stayed virgin. Drecker’s unseen first client changed her mind and slipped a turn-away fee to him from under her hotel room door. Hate it when that happens, but at least he got something!
This show has been called "Breaking Bad with prostitution", but it's not nearly as dark as that. I haven't seen all of that show, but the minute you saw Walter White, you knew he was a doomed man. Ray Drecker isn't.
And of course now I’m going to have to watch more of it just to see what happens. Arg. TV is such an insidious thing.
EDIT: Several people have forwarded me this story on the Daily Beast, about Hung and male sex workers. It's interesting.
Friday, July 03, 2009
Read or Listen
I uploaded a new podcast, here. First Monk and I read a letter about safewords, and make mention of my two favorite safewords: vomit and lawsuit. I promise, those two words will capture any top's attention, anytime.
We also talk about the challenges of doing BDSM with a partner who is hearing-impaired. I make a verbal slip at one point that I must correct: I mistakenly say, "They can hear ME," which is not what I meant. What I was trying to say was: a hearing-impaired person can talk, and I can hear THEM. Didn't come out right. Whoops.
And I did a short piece of writing for Filthy Gorgeous Things, an online magazine about "sex for artists, thinkers, and sensualists." So enjoy that...
I uploaded a new podcast, here. First Monk and I read a letter about safewords, and make mention of my two favorite safewords: vomit and lawsuit. I promise, those two words will capture any top's attention, anytime.
We also talk about the challenges of doing BDSM with a partner who is hearing-impaired. I make a verbal slip at one point that I must correct: I mistakenly say, "They can hear ME," which is not what I meant. What I was trying to say was: a hearing-impaired person can talk, and I can hear THEM. Didn't come out right. Whoops.
And I did a short piece of writing for Filthy Gorgeous Things, an online magazine about "sex for artists, thinkers, and sensualists." So enjoy that...
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Here's a confession that reveals me as either an optimist, or a masochist, I'm not sure which: I just read the newest Anita Blake book from Laurell K. Hamilton, "Skin Trade."
I'm sure the irony of that title is accidental, but it's amusing given that the whole series has turned from paranormal action/mystery into kinky soft porn. Not that I have anything against porn of any variety, but I liked the old Anita Blake, who fondled her guns and killed people (or monsters) a lot.
And it wasn't as if they were even good porn. The new Anita did way too much processing with her emo-monster lovers, and had tons of hand-wringing angst about all the kinky/poly fucking she was doing. You'd think a woman who raises the dead and executes vampires for a living would learn to say, "Oh, all right, fine, so I fucked a couple of bloodsuckers and shape-shifters! Who cares?"
What I can say about the latest book is: it is not as wince-inducingly terrible as the last half dozen or so. It's not nearly as good as the first seven books, which were as yummy and addictive as crack-sprinkled brownies. It's... okay. There are good parts and oh-come-on parts. The ending is weak, but endings are never Ms. Hamilton's strong point in these books.
It has Edward in it. Edward ain't the charmingly creepy sociopath he used to be either, but still, I like him. It also has Olaf, the serial killer who has a crush on Anita. And heaven bless us, it's only got three (I think) sex scenes, and they're all not so terribly long and tedious.
So, it's a vampire novel that doesn't suck. For Ms. Hamilton and her creation, Ms. Blake, that's a good step.
I'm sure the irony of that title is accidental, but it's amusing given that the whole series has turned from paranormal action/mystery into kinky soft porn. Not that I have anything against porn of any variety, but I liked the old Anita Blake, who fondled her guns and killed people (or monsters) a lot.
And it wasn't as if they were even good porn. The new Anita did way too much processing with her emo-monster lovers, and had tons of hand-wringing angst about all the kinky/poly fucking she was doing. You'd think a woman who raises the dead and executes vampires for a living would learn to say, "Oh, all right, fine, so I fucked a couple of bloodsuckers and shape-shifters! Who cares?"
What I can say about the latest book is: it is not as wince-inducingly terrible as the last half dozen or so. It's not nearly as good as the first seven books, which were as yummy and addictive as crack-sprinkled brownies. It's... okay. There are good parts and oh-come-on parts. The ending is weak, but endings are never Ms. Hamilton's strong point in these books.
It has Edward in it. Edward ain't the charmingly creepy sociopath he used to be either, but still, I like him. It also has Olaf, the serial killer who has a crush on Anita. And heaven bless us, it's only got three (I think) sex scenes, and they're all not so terribly long and tedious.
So, it's a vampire novel that doesn't suck. For Ms. Hamilton and her creation, Ms. Blake, that's a good step.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Yes Means Yes
From the mailbag: This is an edited-down version of the letter, mainly because the original is very long and includes a lot of unnecessary detail.
And actually, I don’t think this letter is real. There are a lot of little things about it that set off my bullshit alarm. All of them could just be explained away, but my gut just says: fake. I don’t believe this girlfriend exists, I think the writer made this story up. It’s possible she does exist, and that she is the one making up the story and feeding it to her lover, but I’d bet money that someone is lying here.
But what the heck, I’ll answer it anyway. Because maybe it’ll be useful for someone else who’s contemplating a bad idea.
I’m wondering where, exactly, the girlfriend met this guy? It’s not the usual bar-pickup line. But here’s the short answer: Anyone who says “Hey baby, I run a high-class prostitution agency, and have I got a deal for you!” is a lying idiot, or worse. Run, run, run away from anyone who tells you that.
Also, if you feel revulsion at the idea of sex work, you should NOT do it. We all do things we’re not crazy about doing in life. But, revulsion? That’s a no. This seems really simple and obvious to me, and yet I do see people acting like deep emotional responses are things they can just dismiss, without consequences, if they’re inconvenient.
Okay, see, here’s where the story goes sideways to me. Twelve thousand dollars? And she didn’t smell a rat? Really? Because a quick search on Google will pull up escort rates for any city, and if one is going to spend two weeks torturing oneself, I’d think that would include a little internet research.
But, more advice, on the off chance it’s real: do not fuck people to get a job - even if that job is fucking people. If anyone tells you that you have to audition for a job as an escort, walk away. Only sleazeball pimps want freebies, and there are some of them around, which is why I always worked for female agency owners. (They weren’t all straight, but they never hit on me.)
Here’s how quality-control works in a good escort service: The first couple of clients they send a girl to will be regulars who’ll give the boss a report. They’re always guys who dig seeing the brand-new girls. They don’t expect smooth patter and practiced moves. If the girl messes up in some truly spectacular way, and the client is angry, the boss sends another lady for free and eats the lost money. But that doesn’t happen too often, because agency owners get good at knowing who’s going to work out, and who’s too crazy. If the girlfriend in this story exists, she is broadcasting “crazy” on every channel. No good agency is going to send a brand-new crazy-acting girl on a 12K-for-one-night date. Even if there were 12K-for-one-night dates to be had, which there are not.
Well, stranger things have happened, I suppose. That seems like a lot of effort, and when I add up the costs of what he presumably spent, this guy could have just hired a lady for the night. But some people do get off on playing games. I can’t figure out the phone call from the other woman, either. But whatever it was, it was a red flag that your partner unfortunately ignored.
So basically she got paid with this dress, is what it sounds like. That's not cool, but everyone gets stiffed for a fee at one time or another in the business. You just have to handle it and move on, and not make the same mistake again.
Yeah - no, sweetie, you do not go to the police if you do something illegal and you get ripped off for the fee. That would not be swift.
But wait, wait, wait – STD? Did she have bareback sex with this man? Yes, I know condoms don’t prevent everything. If you decide to be an escort, you’re deciding that you’re willing to take some risks. But not using condoms is extremely stupid.
The last sentence of this paragraph is from Bizarro World to me, I can’t even parse that. But for the rest of it: no, you’re not supposed to “turn her life around, make everything better.” She has to do that. See my previous posts about this: You can’t love troubled people all better. And sometimes help is just the nice word for "control". It’s sweet to be loving and protective to some degree towards your partner, but you are not her parent. For whatever reasons, you thought and hoped this would be okay, so you said you were cool with it. Turns out you were wrong. I hate being wrong, too, but no one is right all the time.
And you’re definitely going to hate this part: I don’t think your girlfriend was raped. I think she was ripped off, but that’s different. She’s a grown person and she consented to the sex. Even if she hated it, he did not force her, correct? No violence, no threats, she wasn’t afraid not to? Yeah – that’s not rape, to me. It’s a lousy situation, and she’s justified in being mad. But I don’t agree that if a guy promises you X if you have sex, and you do, and he breaks that promise, then you were raped. If you retroactively withdraw sexual consent, after the sex is over, because you're angry at your sexual partner, then you render your word meaningless. That’s a dangerous precedent. If yes doesn’t really mean yes, why would anyone bother to get consent in the first place?
From the mailbag: This is an edited-down version of the letter, mainly because the original is very long and includes a lot of unnecessary detail.
And actually, I don’t think this letter is real. There are a lot of little things about it that set off my bullshit alarm. All of them could just be explained away, but my gut just says: fake. I don’t believe this girlfriend exists, I think the writer made this story up. It’s possible she does exist, and that she is the one making up the story and feeding it to her lover, but I’d bet money that someone is lying here.
But what the heck, I’ll answer it anyway. Because maybe it’ll be useful for someone else who’s contemplating a bad idea.
***
I'm male, 24, my girlfriend is the same age.… She has problems: Child abuse, substance abuse, alcoholism in her family and herself, huge eating disorder problems, rape. Now she's been raped a second time, and this time I feel like an accomplice. She told me that she'd been getting offers from a guy she'd met who ran a high-class prostitution agency. She has money problems, and it was incredibly tempting despite her revulsion for it.
I’m wondering where, exactly, the girlfriend met this guy? It’s not the usual bar-pickup line. But here’s the short answer: Anyone who says “Hey baby, I run a high-class prostitution agency, and have I got a deal for you!” is a lying idiot, or worse. Run, run, run away from anyone who tells you that.
Also, if you feel revulsion at the idea of sex work, you should NOT do it. We all do things we’re not crazy about doing in life. But, revulsion? That’s a no. This seems really simple and obvious to me, and yet I do see people acting like deep emotional responses are things they can just dismiss, without consequences, if they’re inconvenient.
Because, in my platonic dreamworld, I believe prostitution should be legal, I told her that I would support whatever decision she made. So, finally, there's an offer of one long night for 12,000 dollars. She decides to do it, torturing herself about it for almost two weeks, going through a whole process (STD screens, photos, waxing) that makes her feel like an animal. He says she needs to sleep with him, that it's standard "quality-control" procedure. He takes her to a hugely fancy hotel, buys dinner, and they do it. She hates it.
Okay, see, here’s where the story goes sideways to me. Twelve thousand dollars? And she didn’t smell a rat? Really? Because a quick search on Google will pull up escort rates for any city, and if one is going to spend two weeks torturing oneself, I’d think that would include a little internet research.
But, more advice, on the off chance it’s real: do not fuck people to get a job - even if that job is fucking people. If anyone tells you that you have to audition for a job as an escort, walk away. Only sleazeball pimps want freebies, and there are some of them around, which is why I always worked for female agency owners. (They weren’t all straight, but they never hit on me.)
Here’s how quality-control works in a good escort service: The first couple of clients they send a girl to will be regulars who’ll give the boss a report. They’re always guys who dig seeing the brand-new girls. They don’t expect smooth patter and practiced moves. If the girl messes up in some truly spectacular way, and the client is angry, the boss sends another lady for free and eats the lost money. But that doesn’t happen too often, because agency owners get good at knowing who’s going to work out, and who’s too crazy. If the girlfriend in this story exists, she is broadcasting “crazy” on every channel. No good agency is going to send a brand-new crazy-acting girl on a 12K-for-one-night date. Even if there were 12K-for-one-night dates to be had, which there are not.
The next day, she goes back to her apartment and finds a 1200 dollar dress. Goes to the hotel, but the client doesn't show. Calls the guy: his phone's been disconnected. This whole thing was a con. He's just a rich FUCK who saw someone he wanted and invented this entire thing. There was even a call from another one of his "girls" saying not to do it, that prostitution was the worst decision she'd ever made. I can't figure that out...maybe sometimes he actually is a pimp and the call was genuine, or maybe it was part of the scheme just to test her, or make her feel worse because that's what get's him the fuck off.
Well, stranger things have happened, I suppose. That seems like a lot of effort, and when I add up the costs of what he presumably spent, this guy could have just hired a lady for the night. But some people do get off on playing games. I can’t figure out the phone call from the other woman, either. But whatever it was, it was a red flag that your partner unfortunately ignored.
So basically she got paid with this dress, is what it sounds like. That's not cool, but everyone gets stiffed for a fee at one time or another in the business. You just have to handle it and move on, and not make the same mistake again.
She can't go to the police because of the humiliation if it got out, because she has no evidence of any kind, because he's covered his tracks too well anyway. Now who knows if he has an STD that maybe she has now. He has pictures of her.
Yeah - no, sweetie, you do not go to the police if you do something illegal and you get ripped off for the fee. That would not be swift.
But wait, wait, wait – STD? Did she have bareback sex with this man? Yes, I know condoms don’t prevent everything. If you decide to be an escort, you’re deciding that you’re willing to take some risks. But not using condoms is extremely stupid.
I could have stopped this at any point; I could have told her no like she clearly wanted me too. I knew how much it was hurting her, but I kept saying it was her decision because I wanted the money for her, because I wanted to be true to my bullshit theories, because secretly it turned me on. I was supposed to protect her, to turn her life around, to make everything better. I used to have daymares about her being raped again and being powerless to stop it...but this is worse. Not only was I not powerless, I helped by being so fucking logical and always talking about "cost-benefit analysis." I was conned just like her, and it was the perfect fucking con: it didn't seem too good to be true because the huge amount of money was balanced by the fucking pain she was feeling!
The last sentence of this paragraph is from Bizarro World to me, I can’t even parse that. But for the rest of it: no, you’re not supposed to “turn her life around, make everything better.” She has to do that. See my previous posts about this: You can’t love troubled people all better. And sometimes help is just the nice word for "control". It’s sweet to be loving and protective to some degree towards your partner, but you are not her parent. For whatever reasons, you thought and hoped this would be okay, so you said you were cool with it. Turns out you were wrong. I hate being wrong, too, but no one is right all the time.
And you’re definitely going to hate this part: I don’t think your girlfriend was raped. I think she was ripped off, but that’s different. She’s a grown person and she consented to the sex. Even if she hated it, he did not force her, correct? No violence, no threats, she wasn’t afraid not to? Yeah – that’s not rape, to me. It’s a lousy situation, and she’s justified in being mad. But I don’t agree that if a guy promises you X if you have sex, and you do, and he breaks that promise, then you were raped. If you retroactively withdraw sexual consent, after the sex is over, because you're angry at your sexual partner, then you render your word meaningless. That’s a dangerous precedent. If yes doesn’t really mean yes, why would anyone bother to get consent in the first place?
Monday, June 22, 2009
Another podcast! Now with extra perviness!
In this episode, Monk and I do letters from readers, and talk about smaller-top/bigger-bottom strategies. Then we branch off into discussing our favorite BDSM implements: canes, staplers and boot-mounted dildo harnesses. As a finish, we argue about whether tits trump all other weapons. Lots of dirty words and graphic descriptions on this one!
Fun quote:
Monk: "You had a glass of champagne in one hand, a stun gun in the other, and a line of boys with their pants pulled down."
Mistress Matisse: "Yeah. That was the best night of my life."
Enjoy!
In this episode, Monk and I do letters from readers, and talk about smaller-top/bigger-bottom strategies. Then we branch off into discussing our favorite BDSM implements: canes, staplers and boot-mounted dildo harnesses. As a finish, we argue about whether tits trump all other weapons. Lots of dirty words and graphic descriptions on this one!
Fun quote:
Monk: "You had a glass of champagne in one hand, a stun gun in the other, and a line of boys with their pants pulled down."
Mistress Matisse: "Yeah. That was the best night of my life."
Enjoy!
Thursday, June 18, 2009
My take on David Carradine's death, in a new column on The Stranger.
For your listening pleasure, Monk does a podcast with Dr. Dick!
Meanwhile, I'm spending the afternoon at the Little Red Day Spa. I haven't visited there before, so I'm interested to see what it's like. (I've been to LRS for parties and performances, naturally. But not for spa experiences.) Armani and I are going to get nice, relaxing massages - and enjoy a few other indulgences as well. And then I am sure we'll do a lovely dinner somewhere...
Bye!
For your listening pleasure, Monk does a podcast with Dr. Dick!
Meanwhile, I'm spending the afternoon at the Little Red Day Spa. I haven't visited there before, so I'm interested to see what it's like. (I've been to LRS for parties and performances, naturally. But not for spa experiences.) Armani and I are going to get nice, relaxing massages - and enjoy a few other indulgences as well. And then I am sure we'll do a lovely dinner somewhere...
Bye!
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